The sads creep up on me so slowly.  I’m constantly moving, so I always think at first, “Well, I’m just exhausted.”  Then the weekend comes, and I can’t get out of bed.  ”Wow, I was more tired than I thought.”  I promise my kids to do all the things we had to put off the following day.  I can only hope that then I have the energy to get out of bed.

I don’t talk much about depression, because it’s something that I’ve coped with off and on.  Most times, I’d just ride it out, until the feeling passed.  It always did.  This past year, though I pulled myself together to do some things, it took Herculean effort.  I finally saw someone, and started on the course to mental wellness.  I don’t see my depression as a liability, because I have a good enough support system to check on me and address when I’m not myself.  My younger sister is phenomenal about getting me to pause and address my health, be it physical or mental.

My coping mechanism is, and always has been, humor.  When I’m blue or emotionally burdened, I find that my humor, though always possessing a bit of bite, is a little more caustic than normal.  Sometimes it’s related to one thing; other times it’s related to everything.  I just happened to pick up that trait recently, so I’m trying to head it off at the pass.

The saying goes, “Hurt people, hurt people.”  I’m not exempt from this.  I just feel a little too pointed lately.  I’m on the edge, ready to pounce on anyone getting out of line.  I’m not trying to not be myself – I was created to check a fool that wants to test.  I just need to employ a bit more live and let live in my life. I’m gonna do one of my meditations tonight, and get my mind right.

Smooches!

The fact that only your temples are grey, and you had me as a daughter is proof that “black don’t crack” is REAL.  I have been a handful since birth.  Remember when I jumped out that tree in a dress?  It caught on the branch, so when I landed, half of the dress was still in the tree?  I had all these flowery words planned out for you, but that’s not the type of dude you are.  That’s not the type of relationship we have.  I was never your “little girl” or your “princess.”  I remember being your “star face” though.  I remember you telling me that my smile changes my entire demeanor.  But outside of that, we had a fairly pragmatic relationship.  Know this though:  I would lay someone down for you without hesitation.

I know that’s not the type of thing you like to hear.  I’m usually not the type to confess to potential felonies.  But the truth is the truth.  I didn’t realize that most men didn’t buy panty hose and feminine products until I was married and on my own.  You were just a different type of dude.  I used to love when people would come to our house and discover how funny you were.  You always seemed so stoic in public, your being a jokester catches everyone off guard.  I’m also not 100% certain you haven’t hidden at least 4 bodies after a spirited game of bid wist, but I won’ t say anything.

I know that you aren’t crazy about the direction I choose to fly, but I love you for allowing me to spread my wings.  So many of my peers have their parents firmly rooted in their personal affairs, and it makes me so grateful that you respect me as an adult.  I think it’s because you know that when I come to you for help, I’m three steps from the psych ward, the ho stroll, chewing ground glass for a living, or some unfortunate combination of the three.

You are a great dude.  When I have to look at things in fairness and objectivity, you are the first person I think of.  You have always been a man that walked your talk in an age where integrity is lacking. When my marriage was at a crossroads, I went to you for advice.  I didn’t do it because you’re my dad and I felt you would cosign my actions.  I went to you because I knew you could call a spade a spade.  If I was on some bull, you would have called me on it without flinching.

You taught me to not romanticize people for who you want them to be, but rather love them for their humanity.  There are parts of our relationship which I had to work out, and I recognize that your ability to handle them better was immaterial.  I had to accept you as a human, and not as a figurehead.  As such, I hope you understand what I am going to say now.  You may never like the life I live.  You may never approve of what I do.  Morally, there are things that I just see…differently.  Organized religion makes me itch and marriage makes me antsy.  I know these are two things which mean a lot to you.  I just don’t want you to take my altered view of these things as some personal slight.

Knowing you is a blessing.  I don’t think I say that enough.  You’re an amazing guy and a hero.  I love you.  I love you and your fanny packs.

My fro is sort of like my calling card.  When I met one of my internet friends for the first time, and I had my hair pulled up, she said “Awww, I thought I was going to see the fro.”  It’s almost like a living breathing thing.  Once upon a time, on a weekend getaway, I’d flat ironed my hair to do something a little different for my sweetie.  He was very polite about it, but said, “But…you know…I prefer the fro.”  I think if I could send my hair to social engagements, people would be cool with that.

I kind of feel as though I’ve always had it, though it’s only been five years.  I’ve often thought about locs, because I think they’re gorgeous, but at the end of the day, the fro is me.  It’s not about this being “better” than any other style of hair.  It’s about me choosing a style that says everything you need to know about my personality: wild, thick, and a little bit crooked.  When my mood is frazzled, the circumference of my fro is almost always off.  When I’m having a good hair day, typically I’m having a good everything day.

I fell in love with the idea of having a fro when I saw Cindy Blackman playing the hell out of the drums behind Lenny Kravitz in the “Are You Gonna Go My Way” video.  Everything about her exuded power and confidence.  The desire for froness was only exacerbated with the emerging Ms. Lauryn Hill.  Her striking features were framed by this kinky halo, which I decided felt like cotton candy and smelled of coconut.  ”I want my hair to do that.”

After years of hemming and hawing, I had my big chop.  It was a defining moment, because I wasn’t trying to see what being natural was all about.  I decided that whatever my hair was going to do, was perfectly okay with me.  It was for life.  I have “relaxer-mares.”  They’re the strangest dreams.  I’ll go to some stranger salon, and leave with silky, processed tresses that I flat out don’t want.  Suggestions to flat iron it are sort of met with an ultimate nose scrunch. It would be long, but it wouldn’t be me.

Cheers to the ladies whose hair is totally lay-inable.

For those of you who have noticed my absence this week, it is due to me being a very very busy girl.  Part of the reason I’ve been missing is because I’ve been so tied up with this:

It’s a great kind of tired when it’s due to your own work.  I’ve just been missing my regular posting and reading your blogs as well.  I’ve missed it so much, I had to blog to you guys to keep you abreast of things.  Soon I’ll be posting pictures of tomorrow night’s awesomenss.

Bon your Sweethearts!

…is hugs, deep hugs.

My parents used to call it “skin food.”  They firmly believed that hugs and affection were essential to our growth into healthy little people.  Finge, now too cool for everything I do ducks out of the hugs I insist on giving.  That’s his problem.  I’m gonna hug my kid every day he’s in my company.  BB still loves her hug time.  In fact, every morning, we have a couple of minutes where she still sits (hangs off) my lap and we talk about our plans for the day.  That’s the good stuff.

There’s silent honesty in hugs.  One of the favorite parts of my trip home is the first hugs I get from my father and stepmother when I walk through the door.  They contain so much love.  My friends and I hug tight.  None of that side arm hugging jazz.  We are a hug hard or keep it to yourself crew; this holds true for my new friends as well.  The fact that it’s always just been understood is amazing.  It’s almost as though love attracts love.

If you want to discuss intimacy, you don’t know anything about life until you’ve lain in silence locked in an embrace.  Just thinking about hands moving in sweeping motions from shoulder blades to the small of the back and back again makes me shudder.  It’s subtly defiant against anything that would challenge your union.

I can’t even explain why I enjoy hugging so much.  Maybe it’s the sense of being both vulnerable and the protector.  Maybe it’s feeling the rhythm of another heart to remind you of a world totally independent of your own.  Whatever it is, I can’t get enough of them.

There are people that you meet who meld into your life seamlessly.  I’ve only lived in Maryland for five years, and the friends I’ve made here, it’s hard to remember a life where they weren’t here.  I have those strange flashes of memories in New Orleans where I think, “Why wasn’t X with me? Oh…that’s right!”  I’m a fierce friend.  The term is virtually synonymous with family, and my heart is like the mob: Once you’re in, you’re IN!  Even when my friends and I aren’t hanging so tough, I still love them dearly.  I still want them to be okay and happy.

But conversely, when you’re out, you’re out.  I’m a very sentimental person, so it takes a lot for me to decide that you no longer belong.  There are people with whom I share a connection that no one will ever understand.  I have exes and past lovers for whom I’d lay down in front of a speeding train and they have proven that they would do the same for me without hesitation.  So when I decide there is no more space for you that decision, however rare, is final.  And just as my friends seem to have always been there (I’ve made new family, and I feel like I’ve known them for YEARS), those outside seem to have hardly been here at all.   “X was there, Y was there and…___? Word? We were still talking? Wow.”

The other day, I was asked about a person with whom I severed ties.  My response was that I had no idea, which was not strange, but I also did not feel the slightest twinge of interest to gain an idea.  Not talking to them feels probably five times longer than actuality.  It dawned on me that based on their attitude, they’d NEVER have a place in my life again.  It was such an odd realization.  I don’t feel happy or sad.  I don’t wish them joy or pain.  I just find it unfortunate that they chose to make themselves obsolete.

How do you cope with ended friendships?

I’ll dive right in.  Today on Twitter, I became rather angered by the some narrow minded views toward drug testing as a prerequisite for public assistance.  There was quite a bit of, “I had to take a drug test to get my job, they should have one to receive public funds.”  Bologna.  Not all jobs test for drugs (I keep a “good” job, and I haven’t taken a drug test since 1997).  Additionally, all public monies require some sort of re-certification process.  This could open individuals up to the bureaucracy of being tested on a regular basis.  Only a small percentage of jobs effect random and regular drug tests.

Additionally, the sentiment that angered me was of people receiving public assistance being “lazy.”  I have a sister in nursing school, working two jobs simply so that she can meet the hourly requirement to receive food stamps.  When I lived in New Orleans, I worked full time for two high volume attorneys, carried a nine hour course load, and received WIC and Medicaid for my children.  Assistance doesn’t equate unemployed.

And on the topic of income, I had a “good” job (well above minimum wage) and still qualified for these assistance programs.  Minimum wage is $7.25.  Having spent the first 28 years of my life in a city built on the backs of service industry workers, I know people who have held down a full time job, and still couldn’t make ends meet without assistance.  Many will retort, “Well, don’t have children you can’t afford.”  You can’t tell me that a man or woman breaking their back to earn a meager living somehow has less of a right or desire to procreate.  So on top of being paid insufficient wages, they have to hear, “Yeah well, sucks for you, pee in this cup because your kind likes to do drugs.”  How people believe this is a more palatable option than paying hard working people a living wage boggles the mind.  How much are YOU willing to pay your janitor?  Could you live on such wages yourself?

The reason companies don’t test you for drugs unless you are a shoe in for the job is because it is an expensive and involved process.  But rather than take those funds and use them toward urban improvement initiatives, let’s take one more dig in.  In addition to that, denying aid to those with positive tests prohibits those individuals from receiving the aid they need.  This ham-fisted, short-sighted approach is not one that I can support, nor will I.   Spout all the rhetoric you want, this is just another tactic to make scapegoats of the poor.

Sell crazy elsewhere.  We’re all stocked up here.